


Five Times Yuri Apologized

by Maiden_of_the_Moon



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Asexual Character, Asexual Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Romantic Comedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-09-09 13:23:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8892385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maiden_of_the_Moon/pseuds/Maiden_of_the_Moon
Summary: (And One Time Viktor Did)





	

**Disclaimer:** WTF is this I feel 15 again. I don’t own shit. 

**A/N:** Merry Christmas to my Senpai and my Staffffff! ILU guys _almost_ as much as Viktor loves Yuri. (“Almost” because let’s face it the Russian cinnamon roll sets the bar pretty fucking high.) 

**Warnings:** IDEK, asexual fluff? Jumping on the trope-train (re: “five times” theme) but whatever. I speak literally one word of Russian and plead ignorance on any inaccuracies. 

**XXX**

**Five Times Yuri Apologized  
(And One Time Viktor Did)**

**XXX**

**1.** “S-Sorry…”

Yuri cringes, the damp on his brow cooling into a thin frost. Heavy pants plume before him; his hands shake atop aching knees. Fall upon fall upon fall had done a number to his nerve endings, numbing him to the pain of literal bruises and keeping him focused on those that have formed on his ego. Thin shoulders slump, unable to bear the weight of Viktor’s disappointment. Though Yuri can’t bring himself to look, he hates knowing his coach is smiling. 

'Smiling.'

That 'smile' hurts him more than any botched jump ever could. 

“It’s not a problem,” Viktor assures, hugging his tissue dispenser so tightly that the box inside it crumples. A cardboard crunch cuts cleanly through cold air. “You have been working hard. Even the world’s best skaters have off-days.” 

“Really? Even _you_?” Yuri mumbles, not sure if he is joking or not. He is still unsure when Viktor scoffs: 

“Of course not _me._ I’m the world’s best _coach_ , not skater.”

The claim is punctuated with a wink. Or Yuri assumes Viktor is winking, anyway; he still hasn’t looked up to check, choosing instead to focus on his fidgeting fingers. On how deeply the handrail separating him and his coach has been gashed by errant skates. On how hard he is trying not to cry.

“I… Oh.” 

Yuri blinks, only daring to peek up when another’s sigh ruffles his bangs. A kiss whispers over his forehead, melting brackish rime. 

“ _Zolotse_ , let’s take a break.” 

**2.** “Sorry! Sorry, oh my gosh—!” 

Half-choked and spluttering, Yuri struggles to speak around the laughter in his throat. This is no easy feat, considering; his mirth—effervescent and sweet— is not unlike champagne in how it drowns out reason and intoxicates the senses. It is difficult to resist its allure. In fact, under normal circumstances, Viktor is as prone to get drunk off of it as his partner. 

Unfortunately, these aren’t normal circumstances. 

“Oh, _Vitya_ , are you okay?” 

Although Yuri fights to keep his balance, he can’t stop from swaying tipsily into each titter. His blush has left him radiant; behind his glasses, his eyes are bright enough to blind his partner to anything and everything else. This stands to follow, Viktor supposes; love is said to do that to a man.

And apparently, curry can too. 

“ _P-please cut out… my t-tongue_ ,” Viktor gasps, keeled over their table with a spoon shaking in his fist. Streaming tears pool beneath him, adding salt to lolling wound. He whimpers. 

Yuri giggles, though he does try very hard not to. Quavering hands clamp over his nose and his cheeks, but even that is not enough to hide his grin, much less suppress it. 

“I’m sorry,” Yuri squeaks again, nudging a full glass of milk towards his fiancé. “I’m not laughing at—God, sweetheart, your _face_ … Dammit, where is Phichit when I need him? Oh, Viktor, I’m sorry, I should have warned you about how different Indian and Japanese curries are…”

He smiles, apologetic. Viktor wheezes, throat ablaze. Distantly, the Russian skating legend wonders if he ever once sweat this much during his twenty years of Spartan training; given that his life is now flashing before his eyes, it is only a matter of moments before he is able to confidently conclude: No. For that matter, neither had he ever _suffered_ this much. _Christ_.

“ _Yuuuuriiiiii_ …” 

Yuri shows his sympathies by prodding at his downed partner’s crown. If he wasn’t in such terrible agony, Viktor might be embarrassed by the combination of perspiration and drool that has his face gliding across their booth. As it is, he hardly notices.

He does, however, notice his skin burning beneath Yuri’s lips. A final chortle fans flames down Viktor’s neck when his partner leans close and whispers: 

“I’m sorry, too, that I won’t cut out your tongue, Vitya. I’m afraid I still have plans for it.”

“~~~” 

The spoon in Viktor’s grasp nearly snaps in half, his flush suddenly more to do with katsudon than curry.

**3.** “I’m sorry…” 

Spells of anxiety are not uncommon for Yuri. Viktor knows this. He knows this anxiety manifests in unexpected moments, in irrational ways; he knows that Yuri realizes the reality of things, but also that he cannot stop guilt and fear from warping his interpretation of certain events. Viktor knows that Yuri hates himself, sometimes. 

So Viktor holds him, and loves him twice as much to compensate. 

“You didn’t remember,” he reminds, patient. Dismissive, but not belittling. It is the truth, after all; more than that, it is the past. It might even be called a _fair_ excuse—the boy _had_ downed two full bottles of liquor—, even if it hadn’t felt ‘fair’ at the time.

It most definitely had not felt fair.

Yuri scowls, though he does not resist when his coach plucks the phone from his trembling fingers. Old snapshots disappear from its screen as quickly as the Banquet itself had disappeared from Yuri’s memory. 

In light of all this, he almost wishes he could forget it again. 

“I led you on…” the boy whispers, mortified. “ _You_. You! At the party. And after, when I performed _Stay Close to Me_ — the routine you had written about… God, it must’ve seemed like I was answering a love letter. All the signs looked to be there! But when you actually came… even after you dropped so many hints!… I… Viktor, I…” 

His snuffle breaks the silence, but does little to alleviate its pressures. Tenebrous shadows of a soft spring rain are dripping down their living room walls, collecting in washed out stains upon the floor. It is chilly today, the sort of cold that permeates the soul just as easily as it does the bones; Yuri shivers in Viktor’s arms, scrubbing a sleeve beneath his nose. 

“…I can’t believe I don’t remember _flamenco dancing_ with my _idol_ ,” he keens, the confession breathy with disbelief. With disgust. Twisting a bit, Yuri looks up at his coach and laments, “Like… for God’s sake, I had posters of you plastered _everywhere_. For _years_. I named my _dog_ after you. You know?”

“I do. I do,” Viktor avows, soothing. He is peaceable, reassuring, because he _does_ know. He does. There is a lot that he knows. He may not know everything—does one _ever_ know everything?—, but he knows what is important. 

Yuri knows, too. And Viktor takes comfort in knowing that. 

“I do…” Viktor tells Yuri again—he tells Yuri differently—, lifting the other’s hand to kiss the crest of his ring. Like a proposal, but _more_ than that. The band’s golden glimmer brightens the day’s grays, emberlike light thrown from gilded curves when Viktor nuzzles into his partner’s palm. “I do, Yuri… and I wish that I could give you those memories back. They are so precious to me. But seeing as I can’t, well… Why don’t we focus on making new memories? You are here now, I am here now, and look— so is a conveniently placed stereo system and the copy of _Now That’s What I Call Music_ that keeps mysteriously winding up in the garbage when I’m not home.” 

Yuri snorts. He grins, despite trying not to; Viktor beams, his whole heart in that smile. 

“Might I have the honor, _Zolotse_ …?” 

**4.** “Sorrysorrysorrysorry!” 

With his shoulder on the door jamb and a single eyebrow raised, an unimpressed Viktor watches his fiancé literally tumbles from the couch, somersaulting his way into a fresh pair of socks. 

“I’m sorry, Viktor, I swear to God I set an alarm! What happened?!” 

Yuri curses while wobbling to a stand, his oscillations quick to become a series of spins as he tries to slots shirt buttons haphazardly into their holes. A sweater vest is snatched off the back of the sofa, then wrestled into submission; the boy need only body-slam it into a wall once before it chooses to behave. A rumpled head pops free of knitted confines. Viktor stares, his blank gaze at odds with his honeyed simper. 

“Not to worry. Though I’m afraid these sorts of restaurants tend to require trousers,” he reminds, expression unchanging when Yuri glances down—gives a wee piglet squeal— and scrambles immediately towards their bedroom, his long arms flailing like an excitable muppet.

“Remember a tie,” his coach calls after, cheery and ever helpful. “If you love me, it won’t be one from the To Burn pile, either!”

“But that’s where you keep _all_ of my ties!” 

“Yes, because that is where they all belong,” Viktor sing-songs under his breath, drawing out his phone to change their dinner reservation. 

**5.** “Oh- _ho_ , sorry about that. That’s just too damn bad, isn’t it?”

Yuri smirks, his pearly teeth peeking from between parted lips. With the elegance of the most alluring of femme fatales, he flutters his fanned Uno cards, a pinkie finger perched beneath his leer.

Viktor glowers at the freshly lain stack of Draw Twos. 

“I’m citing this moment on our divorce papers, Piggy,” he warns, bitter, while adding half the stupid deck to the single card he’d had left in his hand. 

**1.** “ _Mnnn_ … A-ah— S-sorry, _Zolotse_. Wait…” 

“Nnn…? What’s wro—? Oh.” 

Realization dawns in sunrise colors across Yuri’s face, all vibrant pinks and glowing reds. His mouth— glossy and bruised from some very pleasant kissing—, has drawn to a still against his husband’s nape, but that has done little to still… other things. The situation is no more improved by the heat that Yuri exudes, or his involuntary squirming. He is flustered, and generally that would result in his holding Viktor more tightly. But now… 

“I’m sorry…” Viktor whispers a second time, cheeks tinged to match his partner’s. He puffs, “Friction, you know…”

“I know,” Yuri consoles. And it’s true. Like Viktor, he knows. “It’s okay, _Vitya_. I’ll wait. We’ll wait.” 

Good things are always worth the wait, and this is an _awfully_ good cuddle that they have worked themselves into. They are warm, they are close, they are pleasantly tangled in limbs and bedding… It would be a shame to lose something so comfortable over a passing inconvenience. Still, Viktor pouts. 

“That _eros_ of yours… It’s become dangerous,” he complains—teases, really, albeit with such earnestness as to sound histrionic. After clearing the embarrassment from his throat, Viktor moans, “What idiot taught you to be so alluring…?” 

“Mmm… I think it was the same idiot who abandoned a life of fame in Russia in favor of coaching a drunk, pole-dancing Japanese figure skater.” 

“Wow. This idiot sure sounds like a tool.” 

“Yeah, maybe. Maybe a little bit. But he’s got a certain charm,” Yuri decides, soft. He chuckles, a thread of sympathy woven into his whispers; in the dark, his eyes are wide and glittering. “Seriously though, Viktor. It’s all right. And thank you for… you know. Stopping me. Do you want to spoon instead? Until... If that would help…?” 

The offer is not even half-made when it is interrupted by a whine. 

“Noooooo. I like this. I mean… _obviously_. I just don’t want to jab you. So… so let’s…” Viktor trails, brow furrowing in concentration when he begins carefully rearranging their legs. Yuri’s hip is inched delicately to the left. Viktor’s own is shifted to the right. Eiderdown rumples; the mattress groans. They adjust into a position that both find suitably cozy, then resettle more fully into the other’s embrace.

“Mmm… Better, Vitya?”

“Yes. You…?”

“ _Never_ better.” 

“Perfect,” Viktor purrs, contented. He nestles chest to chest, nose to nose. His lips upon his husband’s crown, he murmurs, “Я люблю тебя всей душой...” 

Yuri responds with a blush. With a kiss to Viktor’s temple, to the shell of his ear. To the ring on his hand—the only golden prize that Viktor has every truly cherished—before whispering in return: 

“I love you, too.”


End file.
